Torture
by Caschjen
Summary: Mary Anne Spier doesn't know what's worse: her father's abuse or the hell Logan puts her through.
1. Chapter 1

It all really started when I was about five years old. My father had been in the bathroom starting a bath for me when he'd called me in. Having the five-year-old curiosity most children have I ran into the bathroom and he told me to undress for a bath. As I did so I felt my father's long, hard gaze on me, and I couldn't help but be embarrassed.

I climbed into the tub and giggled as the bubbles rose from the foamy moisture around me and shone like a rainbow after a long, hard storm. That was when my father first touched me. It wasn't areally big difference from how he usually touched me, but this time it seemed as if he let his hands linger on my private parts longer than neccessary. I swear I felt the tip of his finger begin to try and enter me when the phone rang and my father sprung up as if someone had barged through the door and caught him in the act. He walked quickly out of the room and left me to ponder what had just happened.

Then, when I was about seven the abuse began. It wasn't sexual abuse, or mental abuse, but physical abuse. It would begin with a couple of hard spankings, some shoves here and there, and maybe even a slap to the face when he was really mad at me.

The frequency of the abuse began to increase after I turned eight, both sexual and physical. He would touch me with more confidence and he would hit me as if there was no shame in it for him. I was young and I began to wonder why my father hated me so much to the point of this...this _torture._

One night, the night before my ninth birthday, I was playing with the kitten my father had gotten me and apparently I threw it's toy too far and it ran for it. I thought it was a game and I began to chase it, but I tripped over one of my shoes I had left on the floor and I reached out for anything that could break my fall.

The thing I grabbed was a lamp, and, you guessed it, it fell to the floor and shattered into a million different pieces. That huge sound brought my father in and in that moment you could just see the smoke coming from his ears. He charged over to me and grabbed me up by the neck of my t-shirt and brought my face directly in front of his.

"You little bitch! Do you know that you just broke you're MOTHER'S vase?" He shouted at me, shaking me visciously.

He screamed so loud I thought my ear-drums would break, but I was pulled from my daze by a sharp, searing pain in my right arm. I glanced down and I could see the blood dripping to the floor and that was the only thing I needed to see to make me start screaming.

My father dropped the piece of glass and set me down, running to the kitchen to grab and towel and made a homemade tourniquet around the wound.

"Oh, Mary Anne, I'm so sorrry. I don't know what came over me. Come on, honey, stop crying, we're going to the emergency room," He scooped me up and we rushed out into the car. The only thing he said on the way to the emergency room was a warning.

"Remember, Mary Anne, if they ask how you got that cut, tell them you fell on a pile of glass. You wouldn't want to snitch on daddy, would you?" I shook my head no and that was that.

My name is Mary Anne Spier, I'm thirteen-years-old, and this is my story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright, look you guys. I got a PM from someone asking why I haven't updated and this is my reason. I have softball tournaments every weekend all weekend, softball practices 4 to 5 times a week, plus 2 recreational softball games a week, plus 2 rec soccer games a week, and my sister's wedding was this past weekend. Please don't pester me about not updating; I'm doing the best I can.**

* * *

My father never really raped me when I was young. He had started making more sexual movements when I turned 12. Of course, I was in the middle of puberty, and I suppose I was filling out fairly well, so I would naturally assume that was why he was touching me. However, as I said earlier, the sexual movements became more...well, sexual. There were a few rape attempts as well.

For example, it was the night of my 12th birthday and Kristy was sleeping over for the occasion. We were changed into our night clothes and were sitting on the sofa in the living room under piles of blankets, loaded with popcorn and soda and a movie in the VCR. I suppose we dozed off somewhere near the end of the movie because the next thing I remembered, I was shaken awake by the feeling of being thrown onto a bed. I tried to open my eyes, but all I saw was black. I felt over my eyes with my hands; no blindfold was there, so all the lights must have been off. Either way, I was terrified. Who wouldn't be? I was a 12-year-old on a bed in the dark with no clue as to where I was.

Soon enough I felt the weight of another person pressing against my small frame and began to struggle. I'd brought my fists up to my chest to smack the person in the face, but both of my wrists were grabbed and held before me.

"Don't be scared, Mary Anne. It's daddy," He said to me, his weight finally settling down on me completely and nearly cutting off the air supply to my lungs. It was making me feel light-headed.

"Dad...dy?" I said warily, coughing violently. "I...can't breathe."

He rolled over and, grabbing me by the hips, he hoisted me onto his lap with my legs on either side of him. I could breathe again -- I was happy about that, but I was also terrified of it, because right as I sat down, I felt something hard pressing against my bottom. It was daddy's...well, it's too hard to say, but I hope you get the point either way.

"Dad?" I asked him, pulling my hands up to my chest protectively. "Um, what's...what's pressing against me?"

"Oh, Mary Anne, you want to make daddy happy, don't you?" He asked me, running his hands up and down my sides. I didn't like it. I didn't like him rubbing me, I didn't like any of it at all. I didn't completely know how I knew, but this felt...wrong. Wrong in every sense I had, but I didn't know WHY.

"Of course, dad, I alwa- ohh, dad...," I started to tell him that I always did, but he started moving his hips up and down, making "it" rub against me. It made chills run down the back of my spine and it disgusted me, but I didn't know any way out of it.

"Dad, STOP!" I screamed as loudly as I could, hoping to wake Kristy up. Thank God, it worked, because I heard her walking down the hall to the room we were in (which I assumed was my father's) and knocked on the door.

"Hello? Mary Anne, are you in there?" Kristy asked, her knocking never ceasing.

My father jumped up, making me roll off of him and dove under his blankets, knocking me off the bed. I landed with a hard thud as my shoulder connected with the hard floor, a small whimper escaming me. I managed to pull myself up and tried to let my eyes accomodate the current lighting situation. However, before they did, I heard my father whisper to me,

"Mary Anne, if you tell Kristy anything about what just happened in here, I'll see to it that you never see her again. Is that understood young lady?" He hissed venemously. I could feel his hard stare, and to be honest, I just wanted to get away from it.

"Y-yes, dad, I won't say a word. Good night," And with that, I walked over to the door and unlocked it, walked out and closed it. Kristy was standing in the hall, staring at me like I was a crazy person.

"What are you doing up so late, Mary Anne? And what did you scream for?" She asked as we walked back down the hall to the living room.

"I, uh, well, you see, I heard my dad coughing and I went to see if he was okay, and then when I was walking over to his bed I tripped and fell. That's what that loud noise was," I explained slyly, crawling back under our mountain of blankets.

"Are you sure? I mean, are you alright?" Kristy asked, adjusting her pillows so they weren't flat and uncomfortable like mine.

"Y..yeah, I'm fine, Kristy. Really," I laid down and shut my eyes pulling the blanket up to my chin. "Can we just go to sleep now?"

"Yeah, sure. 'Night Mary Anne," She replied, turning over so her back was to me.

"'Night, Kristy...,"

Well, that was only one of the enounters I would have with my father that year. I never knew why I covered for him so many times, or why I cared so much to lie about everything that he did to me when someone asked about my scars. All I knew is that, even though it scared me and creeped me out to no end that he touched me and hurt me the way he did, he was my daddy and I loved him. I thought at the time that I'd love him forever and that I would keep forgiving him for what he did to me. But no, I didn't even think that as time went on, the love would dissolve into hate. A hate so fierce even the fire in Hell would cower when compared to it.

I suppose a part of me always knew something bigger would happen. Someone bigger and worse than anything I would have ever thought would happen to me. Whether it was my subconscious making things up, or I had some amazing psychic ability to see the future. Either way, I always had this nagging feeling in the back of my mind that something bad was going to happen. I knew not if it would be soon or in the future, but what I found it out to be would change my life forever. A change so drastic my emotional state would completely fall apart; so drastic that my father would try to have me murdered for it. The change, you want to know?

I was a pregnant 13-year-old girl, that's what.


	3. Chapter 3

Bear with me; I know some of the facts of this chapter are wrong. I had to alter them to fit it together, and I also don't remember much about Mary Anne, or the age she was when her mother died. We'll say she's 7.

* * *

Let me start at the very, very beginning of this.

My mother died when I was very young, and that scarred me very badly. I was old enough to know that mommy was never coming back but still young enough to know that mommy would never be able to play at the park with me, or play tea party with me. Being that young I never realized how seriously it had affected my father, until now. Not only had he lost his love, but he had lost his best friend; his partner, and his lover. When I turned 12 and he started more serious advances on me, I had never considered that. The thought had never even crossed my mind. Why should it have? I loved my father, he was all I had, and I never thought he would need someone to satisfy him sexually. I never even had sexual thoughts until I was 15.

We moved on after my mother's death. That's all we could do. I went back to school, he went back to work. We came home and ate dinner like normal. We said our prayers together in my room before bed, he tucked me in, gave me a kiss, and said goodnight. We acted as if nothing had ever happen, as if we both had the hope that somehow, someway, she would come back.

I realize now that our actions and thoughts were just a way of covering up our pain. We both felt it. We shared it but would not let each other know just how much it hurt. Maybe it was easier pretending something wasn't missing. It gave us hope to think that someday she might come back, and neither of us wanted to face the fact that it wasn't true. We avoided every possible thing we could that made us think otherwise.

She never came back of course. All I have now are a couple of pictures of her and my father's wedding. The pain is still there, though, and my father and I have yet to talk about my mother's death. I know that I'll never see her again in this life, and I've accepted it, however much it hurt. I have yet to completely move on from it, though. I don't believe anyone who loses someone so special to them can possibly move on. I loved my mother with all of my heart, and contrary to popular belief, she was more of a hero to me than my father ever was. We were so much closer. We make cookies together, took walks, laughed together, and loved together. I still miss her more than anything in this world, and I wish with all my heart and soul that somehow she could come back. I know I'll see her again someday. Not anytime soon, but we'll be together someday, if I make it there.

My father was not a bad parent. He wasn't my mother, but I still loved him all the same. He was the only person I had, and I know we loved each other. He was strict, and there were a lot of rules to obey, but he was not a bad parent. He tried to be both a mother and a father to me. He helped me when I first got my period, however embarrassing it was, and he helped me with my first training bra. He helped me learn how to drive, and he also taught me the value of a dollar. He put me through college. I owe so much to him, even though some people say I shouldn't. They tell me all the time I still shouldn't care about him, that he raped me and 

violated me and took away my childhood. But I do. I still love my father. Who wouldn't? I understand he may have taken away my innocence, my childhood... everything I was used to. But he was my father. He raised me. He gave me a good life, even though he ruined it. I didn't realize at the time how much damage it would cause.

As you should know by now, at the age of 13 I was impregnated by no other than, you guessed it, my father. I was terrified. I was so sure my life was over. I had no idea what to do. By that age, I had already had my period for almost two years, and I did consistently get it around the same time each month. I had missed my period twice by the time I started getting nervous. I wasn't under that much stress, so I knew it couldn't have been delayed from that. My father had already started to get somewhat suspicious. I normally told him when I needed him to take me to the store to get pads, and I hadn't asked him for the past 8 weeks. He'd try and slip it in when we were talking a couple times. You know, asking me if I needed to go to the store anytime soon, and if so he would give me a ride. Stuff like that.

Two weeks later he finally confronted me. Somehow I think he always knew something like this would happen. He asked me when my last period was, and I told him. Almost three months ago now. He was furious. Why hadn't I come to him earlier?

He pushed me back up against the living room wall, pinning me against it. He was so close to me... so very close to me, and it scares me still to think about how close we felt.

"Who have you been playing around with, you dirty little whore..," He whispered into my ear, biting at my earlobe.

Times like that sickened me. It makes me sick to think that my father would think of me in such a way. To think that he thought of me as nothing more than a plaything, a fuck toy to punish for his sick pleasure. I hated it. I absolutely hated feeling like I was at his mercy. I hated feeling helpless, but at the time, there was nothing I could do. I couldn't tell anyone, because I still loved my father, and I didn't want to hurt him. I'd tried to accept it, to sit back and take the abuse, and it worked... for a while.

After my father had kept me pinned against the wall, asking me who I'd been, in his words, 'fucking' lately; who's bitch was I and didn't I just love sleeping with them, he let me go and grabbed his keys, walking out the door without so much as a goodbye.

I collapsed after that. I felt sick. I felt like I was going to throw up. I pulled my knees up to my chest as tears welled up in my eyes. I stared at the ceiling as I leaned back against the wall, letting my head fall onto it with a soft tap. I sat there for a good half hour, wondering, pleading for God to tell me why He had taken my mother. Why had He put me through so much pain? Why did He allow it, and why did He take my mother when I needed her most.

My father eventually came back, carrying in a plastic bag three pregnancy tests. He saw me still on the floor and chuckled, throwing the bag at me, telling me to get my ass up off the floor and to take the tests. He told me if any of them were positive, he'd kill me. I never knew how true that statement would be.

I took the tests. All three came out positive. I must have sat on the floor for what seemed like hours after I saw that pink plus sign, crying and wondering if I would be punished for this, even though I knew it was my father's fault. I knew my world as I knew it was over. I couldn't go out with my friends anymore. No more school. No one wants a pregnant middle schooler in class..

My father came in and judged that from the way I was sitting that the tests were positive. I was pregnant. He knew it and I knew it. We couldn't ignore it. I finally got enough courage to look up at him, mascara running down my cheeks. A look of pure shame and loathing stared back at me. He knew it was his fault, but he didn't want to admit it.

"Throw the tests away, and go pack. We're taking a little vacation," He told me, turning and walking out the door.

Somehow I drug myself up off the floor, threw the tests away and walked slowly to my room. I slowly put clothes into my suit case, stuffing in as much as it could take. I had no idea where we were going, or how long we would be there. All I knew is that I was getting away. Away from my friends, away from SMS, and away from this house. This house where so many horrific things had occurred, so many bad memories in this house. It haunts me to this day when I think about the rooms in that house. The things that were done in them will never leave my mind. They will be with me until the day I die.

My father took my suitcase when I was done packing and threw it in the car, along with his belongings. He turned off all the lights, locked the front door, and we were gone. We drove down our street, into the town square, and off onto the highway. I fell asleep shortly thereafter, my eyelids falling over my eyes. I had cried too much that day, there was too much on my mind, I just had to get away. Just had to get away..


End file.
